


three cups of tea

by lemon_meringue



Series: three is a charm [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Crying, Gentle Sex, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, does this count as poly?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 23:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_meringue/pseuds/lemon_meringue
Summary: A little insight into Peter’s relationships with three men who mean a lot to him.It’s just some mildly poetic, zero set up porn (with feels?) for my three favorite ships, thanks





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

> Did someone say self indulgence? Somebody mention avoiding my plotty fic for this? Hm. I didn’t hear anything.
> 
> Umm these accidentally got longer with each chapter, sorry?
> 
> ** Everyone in this fic has had their ages altered (thank you magical power of fanfiction), I'm imagining all characters somewhere between mid-20s and mid-30s <3

Steve likes to see him. 

 

When they’re together, he always has Peter on his back, the man kneeling between the spider boy’s legs. He’ll stare into Peter’s eyes and they’ll stay like that, getting lost in chocolate, honey brown and and crystal, ocean blue. Peter breathes him in and knows Steve is doing the same, and they bask in the heat and the warmth and memorize each other’s faces, as if they haven’t already. Chart jawlines and cheekbones and commit the shapes of noses and lips to memory like they aren’t already burned into each other’s minds; body and soul immortalized in each other. 

 

Peter’s arms are wrapped around Steve’s neck, one hand grasping a broad shoulder, the other threading fingers through soft blonde hair. Their foreheads are pressed together, sharing breath as Steve eases into him, gripping his hips tightly. That’s the only thing that’s ever harsh, ever firm. Steve’s grip. Everything else is slow and gentle, cautious and precise, but not his hold. Finger shaped bruises form on Peter’s waist and tummy, his thighs, sometimes his wrists; but they never last. They fade quickly (thanks, spider healing) and Steve always kisses them before they go. 

 

Peter’s stretched well and he crosses his ankles at the top of Steve’s ass, pressing his heels into the small of the man’s back, encouraging him to move a little further, a little faster. Steve’s not small; his mass towers over Peter, engulfing him-- and his cock is no different. It’s thick and long and presses deep and huge inside Peter, burning just right, filling him up. Pulsing heat and making a home inside the small boy, Steve buries himself to the hilt. 

 

He takes his dear sweet time, lube and precome easing the way, the man tilting his head and dropping it lower so he can mouth wetly at Peter’s neck. 

 

“That’s it, baby, that’s it,” he whispers, planting kisses on unblemished skin. Peter sighs contentedly, biting his lip, his eyes falling closed. He lets Steve push deep until his whole length is sheathed in the younger, pausing. The soldier lets them wait, lets them sit. Unmoving, unhurried; connected. 

 

Steve gives a tentative little tug out, just an inch or so, and a slow thrust back in. Peter whimpers, even that small action rubbing against his sweet spot. He pulls Steve closer, tighter, his breathing picking up. Steve merely smiles against his skin and leaves more kisses. 

 

This is how they do it; how it always goes. So slow, _too_  slow. Too gentle and too soft and it drives Peter crazy. He loves it. He can lift buses, he was crushed under an entire concrete building and the worst effect it had was fear. Yet Steve treats him like he’s _delicate_. 

 

Like he’s fragile, breakable. Drags it out, taking every second and movement together one at a time, the most tender motions and affectionate touches. 

 

Peter had wondered once if that might annoy him, having to fight for respect and to be taken as a serious, capable hero. It doesn’t. He stopped wondering that after their first time together. It was Peter’s first time, ever, and Steve has only been consistently gentle and languid ever since. The boy loves it. Treasures it. Treasures the way Steve treasures him. 

 

Treasures the man in return. 

 

Steve slides himself all the way out, the entire length of his cock rubbing softly against Peter’s sweet spot. The boy whimpers, feeling tears budding in his eyes, and grasps desperately at Steve’s shoulder, his neck. Peter clings to the man with broken, breathy, feminine moans. The soldier pumps in and out of him so painfully slow that the boy feels dizzy after just a few minutes. 

 

“S-Steve, ah, ah-” He gasps. He’s panting for breath, trying to catch air for his lungs but barely getting anything before Steve’s tortuously gentle thrusts steal it all away. 

 

“Easy, shh, easy. I’ve got you, precious boy. I’ve got you,” the man coos. Peter whines needily, wrapping his legs tighter around the man’s waist. He resolves to losing himself to the pleasure, the way he always does. Lets his mind cloud up with the sweet burn and perfect fullness of Steve inside him, the man’s thighs rubbing against his own as he drags his hips back and forth. The blissful bruising hands on Peter’s waist. 

 

He drops his head back onto Steve’s pillow and moans. He’s not loud, comparatively, but loud enough for Steve to know that the boy beneath him is letting go. Peter’s mouth falls open and he pants for air, his doe eyes still squeezed tight, thighs shaking, pressure pooling thick and heavy in his belly. 

 

“Doing so good, baby. So good for me,” Steve groans, dragging his teeth lightly across Peter’s skin. His smooth tongue wets the boy’s neck with short kitten licks, lips pressing uncoordinated and easy over the expanse of his throat. Peter’s shaking, now. His body trembles with need and he wants to beg but he knows his voice won’t work. All he can do is moan, wavering and shattered and high pitched, even in his own ears, desperate. He holds Steve tight and rocks back as much as he can against the man’s cock, but the soldier’s slow pace is relentless. 

 

A while after the tears in Peter’s eyes started to spill, unaccompanied by traditional crying symptoms and falling solely because he just can’t stop them, Steve removes one hand from the boy’s hips. A large palm and long fingers find Peter’s weeping length, precome making a puddle against his taut tummy where it’s flushed and hard. 

 

Peter’s body lurches and he’d very nearly have convulsed if Steve’s own body wasn’t pressed so close to him, nearly touching, keeping him more or less flat against the bed. Steve pulls his head up just enough to whisper into Peter’s ear, lips brushing the boy’s cheek, the thumb still on the small boy’s hip rubbing soothingly. 

 

“Shh, shh, it’s alright. I’ll take care of you, ok?” The man says, and Peter can only whimper in response. Steve’s grip is loose and his pace slow. He strokes Peter lazily, carefully, in time with the rhythm with which he fucks the smaller boy. His fingers are calloused but soft nonetheless; his palm and the pads of the digits putting just the faintest bit of pressure around Peter. He drags a finger across the boy’s slit, pushing against it, smearing precome down the shaft. Peter whimpers and moans, writhing under the soldier, a mantra of barely audible, incoherent ‘Steve’s falling from his lips. 

 

Steve kisses him on the mouth, tongue slipping in to explore the wet canvas inside Peter. It’s smooth and slick and their saliva mixes between them. It’s hot, Peter feels hot all over, and he wants desperately to come. He tugs gently at Steve’s hair, digging his nails a little into the man’s shoulder, knowing those marks, just like the bruises Steve leaves on him, will fade fast. Super healing. 

 

It takes too long. It always does. Steve drags it out so long, every single motion so painfully slow, so horribly gentle, making Peter feel like he’s floating, surrounded by a haze of pleasure. It’s sort of like being underwater and out without gravity all at once, suspended in an air that feels nothing but good. Not enough, not ever enough, but his body doesn’t quite understand that, because climax builds in him regardless of how depraved he feels. 

 

Steve makes him feel airy. Dainty and elegant, fine like silk but fragile like paper. It’s foreign to Peter, and he loves it. The torturous softness the Steve regards him with. It drives him insane, filling his head with cotton and desperation, poppies and electricity running through him, floating around him. He loves it. 

 

He feels hot, on his skin and all the way through to his core, and the heat gathers with weight and tremors in his belly. Pools there like its flowing up into him from the short sparks of achy, sharp, simmering pleasure that stem from Steve’s cock and hand. It gets bigger and heavier and more agitated, the feeling in his gut, and he’s sweating and flushed, some of his wild hair damp on his forehead. He thinks he might be drooling and despite his eyes closed tight, he feels the tears running steadily down his face. 

 

And Steve, peppering kisses over his cheeks and jaw and nose, pressing his lips to Peter’s, mouthing at his neck-- Steve doesn’t stop. He rolls his hips like the slowest wave in the world into the boy, grinds tenderly against his prostate. He sucks lightly on Peter’s skin, not harsh enough to leave marks. 

 

One more relaxed thrust, rubbing against Peter’s sweet spot; one more loose pump and slow swipe over the tip of the boy’s cock; one more kiss, just under his ear, where he knows Peter is _weak_ , and the younger reaches his limit. 

 

The sedate pleasure that had been bubbling placidly in his tummy erupts with a full-bodied tremor of force. Peter’s back arches and he pulls Steve so tight that the man ducks his head to the side to avoid it being crushed into the boy’s shoulder, turning to tuck his face against Peter’s neck and head, kissing lightly. Every muscle in the boy’s body goes stiff and it’s like the bouts of rapture that were running through his blood all boil and harden and crumble, all at once. He cries out, a long, high pitched and desperate and lost sound. His eyes shut tight and it forces the tears out with conviction, his thighs and arms trembling. He shakes violently despite going rigid as fire explodes through him. It’s hot, so hot, and everything that was too quiet and too soft comes screaming at him like a freight train. Hot come streams out of his cock, painting his milky skin and Steve’s hand in velvet, ivory release.

 

He sees white spots and thinks he might pass out for a few seconds, but he’s not sure.

 

When he comes down, Steve is still moving. He’s groaning louder, more breathily into Peter’s ear. His rhythm is faltering, hips stuttering as Peter clenches down hard around him. The boy is sensitive now, even more so than before, and he shakes with the aftermath of his orgasm, the overstimulation of Steve’s continued thrusts making him squirm and whimper. The soldier won’t stop yet, though. He never does-- Peter doesn’t want him to. Wants the man to come inside him. 

 

His pumps are uncoordinated now, but Steve remains slow and soft through to his end. He buries his face in Peter’s neck and bites, not too hard, giving the roughest thrust of the night (still not rough at all) as he seals himself entirely inside the boy’s hole. Peter can feel the way the soldier’s body tenses, every part of him, so much larger than Peter, going firm and trembling so slightly as he groans. Hot liquid shoots up inside him, deep, filling him up. He swears he can feel it in his throat and spilling out of him at the same time, and he moans again at the sensation. 

 

There’s quiet. They both try to catch their breath, unmoving. Still connected. Steve presses his forehead against Peter’s again and when the boy finally opens his eyes, he sees the soldier staring down at him. He locks into the gaze and they stay like that. Lost in chestnut and cyan, streaks of gold and oak brown and midnight and dawn blues. They watch each other’s pupils dilate more. 

 

Peter lifts his chin, just slightly, as much as he can. Steve takes care of the rest. He drops to meet the boy’s mouth. The kiss is light. Unrushed. Steve’s tongue drags along Peter’s, their lips rubbing and pressing. Eventually, both can breathe relatively normal again, and Steve very, very slowly pulls out. It makes them both wince in sensitivity, but they don’t really mind. Steve kisses him again, then pulls up. Peter closes his eyes and unwraps his arms and legs, allowing the man to leave, knowing he’ll be back in seconds. 

 

He always is. 

 

Moments later, the soldier returns, a damp cloth in hand. He wipes them both clean, the remains of sex being rubbed cautiously away, the utmost care with every movement. Steve kisses Peter’s body at every place he clears of come and lube and sweat, finally kissing the boy on the lips again and discarding the cloth. 

 

He falls into bed next to Peter, pulling the very pliant boy against him. They fit together like puzzle pieces, and Peter noses back against him, turning in Steve’s grip to face the man. He nuzzles into a broad chest that smells vaguely of sweat and sex but more like laundry detergent and dryer sheets and raisin bread. The man feels like safe, fingers running through Peter’s messy, tawny brown hair. The boy folds his arms between them, palms against Steve’s warm skin, their legs tangling and soft cocks unbothered by the proximity. 

 

Steve kisses the top of his head and Peter sighs in content, pressing his own lips to the man’s chest. 

 

“You did so perfect, baby. Always so perfect for me, sweet boy,” Steve coos. Peter smiles and hums appreciatively. He doesn’t know or care what time it is. It doesn’t matter. Because this? This is familiar. Familiar and good. This is what always happens. 

 

Steve fucks him too slow, too gently, and it’s ravishing-- makes the young boy feel exquisite. Precious and good and happy. He cleans them off and they curl up together; bask in each other’s warmth and comfort. Peter lives for it, and so does Steve. This thing they have, whatever the hell it is. This is how it always goes. Soft and sweet and completely perfect; always. 


	2. Tony

If Steve is the farthest on the gentle end of the spectrum, Tony is the complete opposite. 

 

He _can_  be gentle. He can be soft and loving. 

 

But usually it’s hard. Hard and fast and rough, because Tony knows just how much Peter can take, and has no problem pushing him there. There and just a little bit further. 

 

Tony likes new things. He likes to add to and change things up. He likes refreshing and different; likes to keep himself entertained. He’s a genius and he’s seen and done more than probably anyone will ever be able to understand. It makes sense that he needs to keep his brain occupied with new. 

 

Peter, however, is one thing he doesn’t get bored of. 

 

They try positions and they try kinks, and they learned mostly what they do and don’t like, what works best for them. They learned Peter’s limits, they learned Tony’s, they learned what makes them both crazy. What makes them tick. 

 

But even without that. Without the blindfolds and the silk ties and the toys with diamond crests, without those special words and the extravagant manipulation of their bodies; he never gets tired of Peter. 

 

He’ll take him any way, any day, anywhere. And Peter will do the same. 

 

Tony likes to be rough.

 

He likes to hold Peter down, though they both know the boy could overpower him easily, and the fact that he doesn’t gets them both a little harder, a little faster. Tony likes to use the ‘dialed up to 11’ thing to his advantage. Likes to make Peter an incoherent mess, likes to make his body wreck itself with sobs, feel him shaking, make him fall apart. Likes to be the one to put him back together again. 

 

And Peter likes it too. 

 

So when Tony pulls him into his lap in the workshop, at an hour of the morning that neither of them are sure of, both in sweats and Tony’s band t-shirts, Peter tangles his fingers in the man’s beautiful dark hair and kisses him. He lets Tony take over the kiss completely, lets the man’s lips and tongue dominate his own. Moans against him and lets the hero pull up their shirts, tug both of their joggers and boxers down. 

 

When Tony presses a cold lubed finger against Peter’s entrance, he sighs and pulls the man’s head to his chest, where he kisses smooth, bare skin.

 

Tony is different from Steve. 

 

Tony uses teeth. He leaves marks.

 

He drags his canines against Peter’s collar bones and he bites. It’s not too hard, but it’s sharp and it stings a little and draws Peter’s attention away from how the man is hurriedly massaging lube against his rim, pushing one finger inside. The inventor sucks at the spider boy’s flesh, wet with saliva as he breaks blood vessels, bruises, and makes hickeys appear on previously spotless skin. Peter moans into Tony’s hair, his back arched, pressing his hips against Tony’s lower stomach. His thighs are spread on either side of the older man’s, and he loses his breath in his throat, chokes on air as the finger pushes deeper inside him. 

 

It’s hot and cold and thick, quickly filling Peter as much as possible. Tony lifts his head and reaches up, threading his fingers through the back of Peter’s unruly hair to tug him down, slotting their lips together. It’s messy from the start. Too much teeth, too desperate too soon. Their mouths can’t keep saliva from escaping, little drops and trickles that Tony laps up off of the boy’s chin. 

 

He pumps the finger slowly at first, nipping along Peter’s jaw, finding a hollowed spot on the younger avenger’s throat and biting down again. Peter keens at the feeling, his body growing hot, his cock free and hard against his stomach. His length is pressed up against Tony’s own erection and he can feel the man pulsing, can feel them trading and growing heat. His length is dwarfed compared to Tony’s, but neither mind. Tony’s talked about how much he likes it, before. 

 

There are teeth nipping at Peter’s ear and he lets soft, breathy whimpers flee his mouth, kissing Tony’s forehead as the man works love bites onto his neck like art. As if he’s a painter and his mouth is his brush and paint, Peter’s body the canvas. 

 

Tony likes it rough.

 

Peter’s barely adjusted to one finger when it leaves and returns doubled. The lube is excessive, Tony’s own form of overcompensation for how fast he moves, and some drips down the cleft of Peter’s ass, a few drops spilling onto Tony’s pants. The digits are cold, so cold, and it’s a confusing feeling, the conflict between his own hot hole and the chill of lube and the burn of Tony’s thick fingers. 

 

Tony doesn’t let him breathe very much. 

 

Between biting his neck and exploring the small boy’s chest and tummy as gracious distractions, the hero is slicking up his length in minutes. Peter whines, and he doesn’t have to know why. Just lets Tony pull whatever sounds he may want out of him, like a puppet meant for playing. Like Peter is one hundred violins-- the hero making a symphony out of him. 

 

Tony does not fuck like Steve. 

 

He sheathes himself completely inside the small body quickly, pulling the boy’s hips down to meet him. Peter slouches a little, bracing his hands on Tony’s shoulders, kissing him. The man kisses fierce, with frivor and heat, taking him and emptying his soul into the younger, filling up every nook and crevice with himself. Peter melts into him. 

 

The first thrusts are softer. Experimental. Checking, testing. When Peter moves with him, breathing heavy against the older man’s face, letting the roll of Tony’s hips ride through him in ripples, they go faster. Harder. 

 

Tony jerks his hips up, snapping into Peter. It’s like shock waves. Sharp and jagged bolts of electricity that shoot out, spiral through him like fireworks with every thrust. Tony hits his sweet spot right away, aims for it, knows where to look and how to move. Peter is split on the man, letting the older tear him open piece by piece. He cries out, breathy, distressed moans. They move too quick, they always do. It burns, it hurts, and Peter wants more of it. Wants Tony to shred him. Take every fiber of his being and set it on fire. 

 

That’s exactly what he does. 

 

Tony’s hands roam his body. They hold the boy’s hips and drag him down roughly to meet his cock; explore the toned muscle of his tummy and up his chest. Find swollen pink nubs and rub them with the pads of his thumbs, pinch Peter’s nipples so he arches against the man. He holds Tony’s hair just a little too tight in one hand, but just how the older wants it. Fingers scramble for purchase on Tony’s shoulders, digging in, dragging across his back and the back of his neck. 

 

Tony rocks into him, hammers up. Feet plant on the floor and he jacks himself into Peter, like he’s trying to rip through him. Like if he can get deep enough, hard enough, he’ll fill him up entirely, grow inside him, bloom and drown the boy in himself until there’s nothing left but _them_. 

 

He drags his fingers down the boy’s back and bites his chin, nips at the corners of his mouth. Tony draws Peter’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucks, digs his teeth in a little too hard before he lets up and slides his tongue in to meet the younger’s. 

 

“T-Tony,” Peter gasps, his voice breaking. He feels swallowed up. Covered. His belly is heavy with the need to come and his thighs are so tense they’re quivering slightly. Tony licks up the streaks of tears that have fallen from Peter’s eyes, who didn’t realize he’d started crying, and hums. Peter feels the vibrations through his face and down his throat. 

 

“I know, pretty boy. Let me,” he says. His smooth tongue drags along Peter’s neck as he nails the boy’s prostate again. “Taking it so well, let me make you feel good.”

 

It’s all Peter can do to moan and allow one of the man’s hands to slip away. It returns between them slick and cold, and when fingers so much longer and thicker than Peter’s wrap around his aching cock, he jumps. It takes him up and back and Tony responds by hooking an arm half around his waist and slamming him back down, a forceful thrust up to meet him. Peter screams out, burying his face in the crook of Tony’s neck, open mouth sobbing against the man’s hot skin. 

 

His cock burns and the lube on Tony’s hand heats up quickly. 

 

He’s not slow. 

 

He strokes Peter fast and the small boy takes a death grip on his shoulders and neck. Each pump of the tight hand around his length makes him whimper, each pound up into his hole makes him cry out. He gets close in minutes, lasting only because he tries so hard, but Tony’s fingers at the tip of his cock, rubbing over his slit, tracing down his length and squeezing and giving the barest tickle of a touch to his perineum-- it all sends him over. 

 

“Perfect, sweet thing, you’re perfect,” Tony moans against his skin. 

 

Peter shouts and groans and bites down on his own tongue, a sob wracking it’s way out of his body. Pressure bursts through him like a dam breaking down, a rush of pleasure flooding his body, immersing all his senses in heat and adrenaline and an orgasmic high. He throws his head back and his jaw seems to tear open on its own, the broken ends of his moan falling out of his mouth. Thick, pearly ropes of come spill out of him, splattering between the two, dousing Tony’s hand. Peter’s body trembles and he hiccups, his vision too blurred with tears to properly make out the somehow starved and simultaneously satisfied look Tony gives him. 

 

He doesn’t stop. 

 

Tony’s hand strokes him through his orgasm until his milky skin is stained with come, and then he keeps going. Peter shakes and digs his nails into Tony more, his back arching so that he’s almost flush against the man. Tony’s head is just under his chin where he’s facing the ceiling, brows screwed together as he pants for breath that the man won’t give him. The older licks a stripe up from the hollow at the base of his neck, between his collar bones, up his throat to his chin. 

 

“P-please, Tony, I-ah, Mr. Stark, I-” Peter hiccups. His muscles feel stiff and boneless at the same time, and his cock _hurts_. Tony keeps thrusting into him, pounding relentlessly. It’s just short of vicious and he continues to pump the small boy’s length, Peter’s come wetting his hand further. 

 

“There you go, Pete,” Tony hushes. He kisses and bites down again over Peter’s exposed skin, sucking love onto the boy’s neck. Peter feels sting and burn and sharp and ache sparking through his body and smoke filling his head. He thinks he’s drooling a little. He’s drowning in Tony and he loves it, lets the man pull him apart. 

 

With the assault on his sweet spot and and intensity that Tony strokes him, Peter gets close again, fast. Pain bleeds into pleasure and it gathers in his belly, in his thighs and the center of his chest and down to his toes. He surrenders to it, dropping his chin so Tony can kiss him again. It’s messy and Tony’s all but purring into his mouth, and one of his fingers dips into the slit in Peter’s tip and the boy cries out again, the avenger swallowing up the sound. 

 

It’s like fire this time. Like acid in his body, hotter. It hurts and it’s so good, too good, Peter loves it. Lets it rush over him and surge inside him, lets it take over everything else. He comes a second time, his back arching dangerously, his limbs firm and unsteady. Tony milks the white release from him, looks down between them to watch it reach their stomachs and chests, decorate their thighs. 

 

Peter can hardly breathe with the sobs that force their way out of him. His lungs feel tight and he shakes violently now, because once again, Tony doesn’t stop. Keeps thrusting, pumping, taking and taking and taking and destroying, ruining Peter, shattering the boy and filling up the cracks with himself. Peter weeps and mewls at the too sweet pain of overstimulation, and his whimpers are wrecked. 

 

“I’m close, baby, so close,” Tony groans against his temple, licking the shell of his ear. Peter’s not sure if he’s still clinging too tight to the man, his body feels weak. “Think you can come again for me? One more time, angel, just a little more.” 

 

Peter shudders and holds on for dear life, lips parted and wet as he sobs and gasps for breath against Tony’s neck. He can’t respond. He doesn’t have to. 

 

Tony wraps an arm around his waist and pulls them tight together, Peter stringing his arms around Tony’s neck and tethering to him, grounding himself the best he can. It takes longer this time, because he’s going numb with the electric overstimulation that makes him wither in Iron Man’s lap. But he gets there. 

 

The third time is ache. It burns like fire, but lower, deeper, slower. Hotter. It makes him scream so loud he goes silent apart from choking, broken gasps. He goes rigid and hot and trembles uncontrollably, feeling all the pleasure, laced so thickly with pain, rushing through him. It takes over his eyes and his lungs and his toes curl and he sucks in his tummy and cries into Tony’s shoulder. He comes again, and it burns it’s way out of him, hot and watery and fresh wet covering them both, almost reaching as high as Peter’s nipples. Tony milks it out of him until he has nothing left, spent entirely, empty, and finally releases the boy’s abused cock. 

 

Both of Tony’s hands move to his hips and he knows, despite the satiated, hollow, perfect numbness that overtakes him, that he clenches down impossibly tight around the thick length inside him. Tony fucks him wildly, only a few more forceful thrusts, and then he’s coming too. He bites Peter’s collar bone almost hard enough to draw blood and empties himself into the boy. Fills him up with heat and drags the boy by the hair down into another kiss. 

 

Tony is rough. 

 

He fucks like war and loves with confidence, with fear, with desperation and total devotion, taking and giving _e_ _verything_  there is to pull apart and fill with. He pours himself vehemently into Peter, a thick and heavy stream, melting and solidifying like honey in every crevice of Peter’s body, of his soul. Puts frothy clouds in his head and makes him come apart, rebuilding him every time they touch with careful, calloused hands that take him roughly, then gently set the pieces back together, himself in all the cracks.

 

They don’t move for a long time. Peter shakes, the tremors coming from deep inside him. He cries quietly, sniffles and breathes in deep. Tony rubs his back and his thighs and whispers to him, tells him sweet things and colorful praise and promises to always take care of him. 

 

They’re rough. They sink inside each other, worm their ways through the chips in the walls and fill up with liquid gold. 

 

Tony kisses him gently and Peter inhales the smell of him, like oil and metal and shampoo. He plants his hands against the man’s chest and kisses back just as softly, until Tony whispers against his lips that they should clean up. Go to bed. 

 

Peter has super strength, but he lets the older man carry him anyways. 

 

Tony peppers kisses to his temple and his cheekbones and coos in his ear, and his shoulders may hold the weight of the world, but right now, his arms just hold Peter. And it’s good. 

 

Peter’s asleep before they reach the bed. 


	3. Bucky

Bucky’s different. 

 

He’s somewhere in the middle, between Steve and Tony, but two streets over and aligned with a different level. 

 

He’s not as tortuously gentle as Captain America and he’s not as incapacitatingly rough as Iron Man. He’s different. 

 

He’s soft and he’s slow, but he’s forceful. Leaves the bruises and hickeys where Peter never really expected him to. Treats the spider boy’s body like a temple, like art, like something he worships and destroys all at once. He’ll take it easy, take his time, but there’s always a moment at the end, a barely concealed second after each thrust and movement where he’s a little harder, a little rougher. 

  
Peter thinks it’s the Winter Soldier, probably. Sitting in the back of Bucky’s mind, maybe sulking, maybe whispering to him. Quiet and dormant and kind of consumed by Bucky, so he can’t do any more harm, but at the same time made a permanent home in the other. 

 

Aftershocks of violence, but they don’t make Peter afraid. They don’t scare Bucky, either. They just come, reminding them of where they’ve been and what they’re doing. It doesn’t weigh on either of them or drag them closer to the consciousness they often try to avoid. It pushes them further. Snaps them suddenly deeper into the haze that Bucky tries to ease them into. 

 

It’s hot. Reminds Peter of Tony and Steve but drowns him in something solely and entirely Bucky. 

 

Bucky, who takes his time. 

 

He lays Peter down on the bed, on his back, flesh and metal hands trailing lightly over his skin. He strips Peter slowly and completely on his own, reverently holding and kissing his ankles and legs and hands and shoulders. Then he covers the boy’s hands with his own so they can take off his clothes together. He kisses like he knows how. It’s less charming and flirtatious than Tony, who spent years as a “playboy”. And it’s less formal, less _paternal_  than Steve, who treats Peter like he’s delicate and might break if he presses to hard (he won’t. Peter doesn’t mind). Kisses like a soldier who’s taken out his fair share of dames, but always respected them and walked them to their front doors. Gave them flowers. Not roses, not sultry. Lilies, carnations and tulips. Pink and white and yellow, not red. Sensual and loving, but not quite sexual, not quite desperate. 

 

Kisses the way only Bucky does. 

 

His lips are light and hot, not steaming, not wet. Soft on Peter’s mouth, on his cheeks and down his neck. On his chest. Smooth but dry of tongue and saliva until he reaches the boy’s stomach. He licks the crevices of Peter’s toned muscles, dips his tongue into the boy’s navel. Sucks gently, small nips of teeth. Teasing, but not to torment. A mix of loving and playful just right to remind them that here, it’s just them. No battles, no pain. Just soft kisses and whimsical little bites and the two of them, taking their time. 

 

He rubs Peter’s thighs and sucks hickeys slowly, gently onto Peter’s tummy, between the v-lines of his hips, kissing up his chest. He brings their mouths together and Peter threads his fingers through the man’s hair, and it’s not needy yet. It’s not messy, even when Bucky slips his tongue between Peter’s lips and it dances inside the boy’s mouth, tasting pomegranate and lemonade. Bucky tastes like mints, a little like alcohol, and a lot like dark chocolate. They snack a lot, he supposes. 

 

Bucky warms the lube on his fingers before one hand slips behind Peter’s knee, pulling it up. He bends both his legs and spreads them, shifting his hips, exposing himself. He’s always a little flushed, cheeks a little pink when he’s in someone’s bed and lacking clothes, but he doesn’t blush. Bucky feels safe. Not so overwhelming secure that Peter feels small and emotional, though. Just safe. Safe enough to giggle when he tickles behind the boy’s knee, safe enough to just breathe and let the man prod at his entrance. 

 

He moves slow. Not quite as slow as Steve, but something similar. Bucky avoids erogenous spots for the first few minutes, focusing on stretching Peter with one finger while they kiss lazily. It feels good, but not so good that he gets desperate for more. Just good. Easy. Bucky adds another finger, slick and warm, and nibbles on Peter’s neck, under his ear. It makes the boy squirm and Bucky’s fingers ghost over his sides, making Peter huff out a little laugh and watch the corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkle when he does. 

 

Bucky is beautiful. 

 

He’s like a sculpture, like a painting. A masterpiece and Peter can see every layer of good and bad in his face when he stares off, and can watch all the layers and the history abandon those stormy blue eyes when they lay down together. His hair, cut short again but growing out a little now, falls around his face, just a bit. His jaw looks sharp and Peter wants to trace it, so he does. Bucky drops his head slightly to catch Peter’s hand, kissing his fingertips and nosing into his palm, lips against the boy’s wrist as he curls his digits inside the younger. 

 

Peter’s breath shakes in his throat and he swallows hard, hands sliding behind Bucky’s neck to pull him unhurried into another kiss. Bucky kisses him for a while, until the pads of the man’s fingers rubbing against his sweet spot make him lost and he can’t keep up, even with the slow pace. So Bucky kisses back down his neck, dragging his teeth lightly against Peter’s collarbones and over his nipples, lips pressed against every rib and ab as he moves lower. 

 

He kneels between Peter’s legs and kisses his jutting hip bones and the hollows of his waist, the divots where his middle becomes his thighs. His tongue is warm, not scalding or shocking but warm and soft against Peter’s hard length. Bucky’s free hand rubs soothing circles onto Peter’s creamy skin, and he laps up the precome that pooled on the boy’s tummy. He’s soft and gentle when he kisses Peter’s flushed tip, but it still makes the boy jerk a little. Bucky moves slow, taking him all the way down in one go. 

 

He doesn’t suck, much, other than to keep it from getting too messy. Mostly he just holds Peter’s length in his hot mouth, tonguing at him in a way that feels good without overwhelming. It feels right, just enough. A good pace that doesn’t have Peter wanting to beg for more or less. 

 

Bucky always takes his time. He fingers Peter open and sucks him off until the boy’s hole is stretched nearly sloppy and he’s getting close to wanting, to needing more. It’s when Peter’s soft sighs and little withering turns to higher, needier moans, whimpers, squirming under the man. That’s when Bucky pulls slowly off, kissing Peter’s thighs. 

 

He licks smooth skin and works love bites into the boy, and they feel like they reach all the way through him. Bucky takes his fingers out with care and slicks up his cock, letting his own throbbing erection warm the lube, standing up over Peter. He wipes his hands off, Peter doesn’t know where, and laces their fingers, palms pressed together, pinning Peter’s hands to the bed beside his unruly hair. There’s steal and royal blue that seems to melt into caramel and coffee brown, and Peter doesn't want to look away but Bucky slides into him so easily and still feels so thick, that his eyes close without his permission anyways. 

 

Bucky kisses him. It’s deep but it’s still not fervent, growing needier as Peter’s cock is denied friction, the kiss remaining soft under Bucky’s control. He slips inside the small boy in one cautious motion, engulfing himself entirely in hot, wet pressure. Peter moans, the sound feminine and a bit desperate, and Bucky swallows it up. They breathe and sigh together, sharing air and groans, Bucky drinking up Peter’s whimpers when he presses into the boy’s prostate. It’s not rough, not forceful. Just slow presses and drags of his cock. 

 

Time doesn’t exist when they’re like this. It feels less like fucking and more like making love, if Peter’s honest, but that doesn’t make him feel anything unwelcome. Warmth spreads through him and his toes curl with each lazy push against his sweet spot, Bucky’s tongue smooth against his own. 

 

Bucky doesn’t say much when they do this. Peter doesn’t, either. Their faces are too open and expressive, too calm and eager and _safe_ ; they don’t need to. There’s a near overwhelming trust between them that makes them feel underwater. Peter loves it. Bucky loves it. 

 

When they do speak, it’s quiet. 

 

“Baby,” Bucky whispers. His lips brush Peter’s when he does. The younger boy’s back arches a little at the endearment, and their chests touch for a moment. “You’re so cute,” he smirks, but it’s not smug. A little awed, laced with reverence. 

 

“Bucky,” Peter manages, voice cracking a little, and he feels his eyes watering. “Jay, please,” he adds. Bucky smiles at him. Sometimes Peter calls him that; his first name. James or Jay, and it’s different. It’s nice. Bucky’s been through a lot of shit with his best friend, Steve. The Winter Soldier has been through a lot of shit, too. But James? Jay, whispered by the soft voice of an angel in a dark or dimly lit room, brimming with warmth and little butterfly kisses? He’s ok. They’re all better, but he’s the most alright. He’s the one who fucks a pretty boy into the mattress and listens to him ramble about things the man doesn’t understand. He’s the one who makes the boy smile and then kisses it off his face. 

 

Bucky’s lips meet Peter’s again and he sucks lightly on the younger’s bottom lip. He traces it with his tongue, then licks up Peter’s cheeks. 

 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m here,” he coos. Peter’s breath is shaky and a few tears spill out, and he wraps his legs a little tighter around Bucky’s waist. 

 

And then the aftershocks start. 

 

Bucky’s thrusts end with short jerks, languid motions concluded with forceful pounds into Peter’s sweet spot. It takes the air out of Peter’s lungs and he knees, mewling, clenching down tighter and squeezing Bucky’s hands. 

 

When Bucky takes him apart, it’s not like Steve or Tony. It’s not so slow that Peter is lost in wanting until suddenly he’s exploding, and it’s not so rough that he tears the boy apart. It’s a little gentle and a little forceful and he fills him up at a pace that Peter _feels_  every second of. Not blinded by desperation or numbing intensity. Feels everything for every moment and drowns in it completely. 

 

Peter does the same to the older man, he knows. He can feel that, too. Hear it in the whispers and taste it in the kisses and feel it in every place where Bucky touches him. 

 

Without the friction to his cock, Bucky gets closer faster than Peter. He’s slow and steady with the blips of force at the end for a long time. Rolls his hips just to snap them at the end with a steady rhythm. Grinds into the body beneath him at a constant tempo, nibbles on Peter’s chin and jaw, kisses him like he’s the fountain of life. Like he’s precious and perfect. Whispers those words and words like them in the boy’s ear, and Peter knows that Bucky-- he means them. 

 

It’s long. They take their time. Or rather, Bucky does. At that pace that’s lazy and intertwined with vigor. But Peter’s tight and hot and making pretty sounds under him, and after a long while, Bucky’s rhythm starts to falter. His hips stutter a little, right against the boy’s prostate, and it makes Peter whine and clamp down around the man. It pushes Bucky further and he does it again, grinding with an unsteady pace into the boy’s prostate, making Peter clench and moan, letting himself seep into the boy as the entirety of Peter swirls around inside his head, in his bones.

 

“Peter, doll… ‘m close,” Bucky husks, licking under Peter’s ear. Everyone that Peter sleeps with has found out about his sweet spots; but Bucky seems to use them the best. Peter shudders and wiggles on the sheets. His cock aches by now, precome weeping from it onto his stomach, his thighs quivering with tension. His stomach tenses and flexes, sucking in, and he moans a little louder against the stubble on Bucky’s cheek. 

 

Hips grind and stutter into him for a few more thrusts, and then Bucky comes. It’s hot and thick and Peter can feel it pulsing into him. He feels Bucky’s cock throb as the man buries his face in Peter’s neck, dragging his lips just a little messily across the boy’s face and slotting their mouths together. He groans into Peter and thrusts himself deep, little pumps to milk his orgasm from him. Their fingers tighten together and it fits, because even Bucky’s super soldier hand and metal arm can’t accidentally hurt Peter’s enhanced strength and healing. 

 

Maybe that’s why they trust each other so much. A man and an arm molded to harm couldn’t hurt the boy below him even if he tried. Warped for causing pain and dragged between violence and sanity, and now, all he can bring the the angel underneath him his pleasure and a haze of _safety_. 

 

Maybe that’s what makes them click. 

 

Neither of them really think about it, though. They don’t care much for the underlying reasons, for the subtext. They know that there’s nothing between them but good and trust. A little playful, a little sensual, a lot of loving. Lilies and roses at the same time. Pink and white and red, too. Puzzle pieces that might be distorted, but fit together perfectly. 

 

Bucky presses their entire bodies together as he rides out his climax. Peter can feel the coarse and soft skin of the larger man, of his abs and broad chest flush against Peter’s smaller frame. He kisses Bucky through it and squirms at the not-quite-right friction of his cock trapped between their stomachs. Bucky breathes heavy when he’s done, nose in Peter’s hair, lips on the boy’s cheek bone. Peter feels his chest touching and retreating with each breath, and grinds up against the other, just a little. Bucky smiles against his face and kisses him gently, and Peter opens his eyes to see pure adoration in the blown pupils already studying him. 

 

They both close their eyes when Bucky kisses him again, and open once more when the man releases Peter’s hands and pulls away. He scoots back down, kneeling between Peter’s legs, forcing him to remove them from around the older man’s waist. Bucky holds under his knees, pushing them up enough so he can drag and press them together in front of him. He kisses at the tops of Peter’s shins, thumbs running little circles on the boy's skin, who can feel the position exposing his hole. Opening him in a small kind of way that has him feeling Bucky’s come trickling out. 

 

The soldier releases his legs after kissing each knee again, spreading them apart and laying down. He plants his hands under Peter’s thighs and presses his lips to the sensitive skin, and Peter drops his head onto the pillow. He screws his eyes shut, throwing an elbow over his face and grabbing the sheets with his other hand. Bucky’s tongue finds his hole, puckered and dark pink, swiping over it. He laps at Peter’s entrance for a moment, before pushing inside. 

 

Peter’s breath catches somewhere just outside his lungs and he lets out broken gasps and whimpers. He squirms on the bed, back arching and relaxing, Bucky’s hands keeping his thighs from clenching closed. Without a body on top of him, the air of the bedroom feels cold on his cock, wet with precome and the sediments of Bucky’s saliva. 

 

The small boy moans, high and needy, and his body quivers there. He feels hot, foamy pleasure bubbling in his tummy under Bucky’s hickeys. The man explores his hole with his tongue, a mess of lube and come and spit. Peter writhes, bending and unbending his legs, panting for air. It’s hot and Bucky’s tongue may be much shorter than his cock or fingers, but it contorts and presses and curls in ways nothing else can. He sucks on Peter’s rim and the boy yelps, his body nearly convulsing. 

 

“J-James, Bucky, p-please, I, hhnngg, ah-!” Peter cries out again as Bucky slips a finger back inside, along his tongue, and presses into Peter’s prostate. He can feel the man smiling against his skin and he wiggles around, whimpering needily. Bucky rubs his sweet spot firmly, a little rough, tongue tasting everything inside Peter’s tight heat. 

 

They keep it up, Bucky massaging Peter’s prostate and rimming him, sending stringy waves of pleasure through the boy, Peter mumbling and gasping and crying out in response. The easy, satiable good is long gone, now. He feels desperate and hot, sweating with need, his body flushed and his neglected cock leaking precome. Bucky makes something electric, sharp and dull, spread out like a spider’s web from where he touches Peter. A hollow and full feeling, sending sparks through the small boy’s blood, clouding his head with lilies and warmth and emptying himself into the fibers of Peter’s body. 

 

“Come on, sweetheart. Come for me, ok?” Bucky says. His voice is low and gravely and Peter can feel it where the man’s chin is still against his skin. And then his tongue worms back inside, and Peter falls apart all over again. 

 

He’s floating, falling and sinking and flying and suspended in time and space. He knows he’s moaning and mewling to Bucky’s touch, but he can’t breathe at all. His body buzzes with the surges of pleasure the older man sends flooding through him, completely overwhelmed. His face is wet with tears that spill out from his arm and closed eyes, his whole body hot, burning up. Bucky squeezes the thigh he’s still holding with his metal hand, heated from Peter’s skin, pressing his flesh finger hard into the boy’s sweet spot, sucking on his rim, and Peter comes undone. 

 

The pressure in his tummy bursts. Shock waves go rushing through him, adrenaline and ecstasy in his veins. He keens but it gets wrecked in his throat and reduces to a broken, breathy, feminine moan, almost nothing but a sigh. His stomach and thighs tighten and his back arches, and he feels himself clenching down around Bucky’s finger and tongue. A fresh burst of tears stream from his eyes and a sob forces its way out of him. He orgasms untouched, crying Bucky’s name, ivory come painting his creamy tummy and chest in silky ropes. Bucky moves him through it, rubbing on his prostate and licking into him until Peter’s capable of whimpering in overstimulation. Only then does he slowly remove his finger, and then his tongue.

 

He kisses Peter’s hole again, lips trailing up the boy's thighs and tummy, feeling hot skin under his mouth. He laps up Peter’s release, sucking and licking the boy’s come from his skin, leaving more hickeys on the younger’s torso in his wake. He cleans Peter’s cock with his mouth and kisses his way up to the boy’s face. 

 

With a soft smile and warm flowers blooming in his stomach, Bucky gently pulls Peter’s arm away from his face. He coaxes the boy down from his high with feather light kisses peppered over his face, licking the tears away. When Peter finally opens his eyes, the flood of everything settling down, he sees Bucky gazing at him fondly, feels the man running fingers through his hair, brushing chestnut strands from his forehead. 

 

“How ya feelin’, sweetheart?” Bucky coos. His voice is soft. Peter likes it a lot and hums in response. He winds his arms around Bucky’s neck again, pulling the man in for a soft kiss. They don’t open their mouths this time. Just press their lips together and feel as they fade and melt and mix together, as the sex haze settles and a new one settles in. 

 

Bucky’s not like Steve or Tony.

 

He’s somewhere between gentle and rough. He’s not afraid of Peter, of hurting him, but he isn’t harsh, either. 

 

He memorizes Peter’s body with his mouth, with his tongue and soft kisses. Rocks into him languidly and snaps his hips at the end of each thrust, just to hit Peter’s sweet spot a little harder. 

 

Looks at the body he surrounds completely and thinks he must be an angel. Holds him like he’s precious. Fucks him like they’re in love. Maybe they are. 

 

Peter drowns in Bucky and Bucky drowns in him. They take each other apart without meaning to, without intent aside from making the other feel good, and put each other back together with themselves buried inside each piece. They fill each other up and dissolve into one another. 

 

Bucky’s something different. 

 

Peter feels safe with Steve.

 

He feels complete with Tony.

 

He feels home with Bucky. 

 

When Peter finally stops crying and Bucky finally stops littering his body in kisses, the man pulls away to find a towel. He cleans them both with a soft, kind smile and Peter offers him an appreciative, if loopy little grin in return. When Bucky tosses the towel away and slips into bed next to the small boy, he tugs Peter almost entirely on top of him. Their legs weave together and Peter lets one hand rest on Bucky’s chest, the other falling beside his head, one finger twirling some of the man’s dark hair. He lays his ear over the soldier’s ancient heart and listens to it beat. 

 

When Bucky cards his fingers through Peter’s messy brown locks and kisses the top of his head, falling into a softly whispered mantra of sweet words and promises that Peter believes, the younger closes his eyes. Listens to the man’s heart pumping, feels it resonating through both of their bodies. Breathes in deep and smells comfort, like pine and soap and _Bucky_. Lets the solider's warmth seep into him. Lets his own seep into Bucky. 

 

They melt into each other on the bed, sheets strewn carelessly over them. Bucky whispers to him in his deep, sleep, aftermath voice, and Peter lets himself soak up the man; soak into him. 

 

Bucky holds him a little tighter. 

 

Peter noses and snuggles into the embrace. 

 

He’s awake in time to respond to Bucky’s quiet, “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” he breathes. Feels Bucky’s kiss the top of his head again, the arms around him giving a little squeeze, soothing warmth enveloping him in good, in Bucky. 

 

A few moments later, he’s asleep. They don’t wake up for a long time, but when they do, they make breakfast in their boxers and Bucky’s shirts, and Steve wanders into the kitchen for a smoothie, kissing Peter’s temple. Tony shows up with an empty coffee pot and he fills it with a hand on Peter’s waist, thumb making soothing circles on the boy's hip. Steve tries to lecture the inventor and Tony makes colorful threats in return, and Bucky just smiles warmly and holds Peter in his lap. And the boy feels good. 

 

Safe. 

 

Complete. 

 

Home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright cool, this was my fever of progressively longer chaptered porn for the ships I will go down with. Thanks and hope you liked it <3


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